


entertain these fair well-spoken days

by romans



Category: Stoker (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romans/pseuds/romans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by- Richard loves Richard;</p>
            </blockquote>





	entertain these fair well-spoken days

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Занимать болтливый, пышный век](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948364) by [Tinumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinumbra/pseuds/Tinumbra)



_The duende…. Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child’s saliva, crushed grass, and medusa’s veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things._

_\- Federico García Lorca_

 

Charlie’s education is eclectic, thorough, and almost entirely self-directed. He has a tutor who comes on the good days, at first, but as time goes on Charlie needs him less and less. He’s a voracious learner, his mind cracked wide open, a black hole devouring everything around him to be digested and analyzed and spat back into the world almost whole. No one can say, really, how deeply he understands the things he learns, the literature, the poems, the histories, the fractions and fractals, but he can reproduce and remember them faultlessly. He is no savant: he spends hours every day poring over his books, his documentaries, letters from distant correspondents. For a year he does nothing but practice the piano, day in and day out, like an automaton. If they had read the infrequent letters that he received, they would have known that it had been the same year that India had started learning to play.

 _Richard III_ and _Othello_ are his favorite plays, and he tells his therapist, wistfully, that he would like to be an actor someday, or a king. She smiles at his gawky, intense eyes, set in a face that is sprinkled with acne. It’s good, for him to have interests outside of his narrow little world. She suggests Stanislavski.

Three years later, he has grown and filled out, and become a beautiful young man. His eyes are as intense as ever, and seem to be leavened with a little softness. For the first time since his arrival, he seems to be opening up, inviting human contact. He leans in when he speaks to her, laughs openly and often, and flirts just sweetly enough to tread the boundaries of propriety.

"Charlie," she says one day, walking him back to his room. "You know you can leave now, if you want to. I would feel comfortable letting you live as an outpatient." The contract had been very specific on that point. Charlie was not a prisoner, not once he reached his majority.

"Why would I want to leave? This is home," Charlie says, leaning against the open door of his room. It looks nearly pleasant in the late evening light, gold slanting across the dark wood of his piano, over the spines of his books and his neat bed. His smile is nearly angelic.

"You’re free to stay here as long as you like," she says. She feels a little selfish thrill at the prospect of seeing him every day. He’s gone into his room, and the sunlight limns his slim waist and hips in gold. His face is pressed up against his window, childishly, and she can’t help but smile at the sight. "Glorious summer," he says, apparently to himself.

Charlie turns his head to cock an eye at her, smearing condensation on the glass. His smile is stretched and misshapen by the half of his face that’s still leaning against the window. It looks bizarre, and yet-

"I’m not ready to go. Not yet," Charlie says.

"Do you need anything?" she asks.

"No," Charlie says, turning back to the window. She’s been dismissed, and she knows from painful experience that he can and will ignore her totally until their next session. He’s mumbling to himself, something like a litany.

As she turns to leave, his voice floats over his shoulder to her ears.

_“What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by- Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I. Is there a murderer here? No…”_

_Yes_ , she thinks, a little sadly, and shuts his door.


End file.
